


Marked

by wingeddserpent



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Awkwardness, Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, Extended Scene, Other, Tentacles, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/wingeddserpent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This whole being branded thing feels a little weird, to be honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

> For the tentacles square on my kink bingo card.

The bells are what convince him this is real and happening. Their ringing shatters the cool safety of his bed, the sharp belief that reality is in Palumpolem, in bed, his parents fast asleep in the room down the hall. Darkness swells from emptiness and he's not sure if that's relieving or worse. At least there's something, now, which may or may not be better than nothing.

It's like falling except not through air, maybe through molasses, and he remembers cookies made with his mother, her mouth tipped up at the corners even though he always managed to make a terrible mess of the kitchen. Light flares—green, too bright, but soothing, something in darkness, but there's no hope stirring in his chest at the sight of it—and the light twists into tendrils, fast, strong, and they reach out, wrap tight tight tight around his wrists and his ankles and his chest. They squeeze him, but not tight enough for breathlessness, it's almost more like—like an embrace. Hope sucks in a breath.

Either the tendrils help pull him down, or they slow his descent, and they're warm, so warm, and he shuts his eyes, sees the green glow through his eyelids, and thinks maybe this isn't such a bad way to die, if he's dying. At least he feels safe.

One of the tendrils shifts, trails across his skin, and gooseflesh rises in its wake. It's teasing him, he thinks, and wants more, more of, more of... what?

He doesn't know, just knows the gentle touch is maddening, and he struggles against the tendrils that are restraining him and they hold him tighter, the exploratory one tracing circles over his cheek, and then it moves across him, like it's looking for something, though what that might be, he has no clue. Everywhere the tendril touches feels too warm, too hot, and he's shaking hard in the grip of its fellows, because it feels good or close enough, makes spots dance behind his eyes, and his skin's crawling with the sensation, of the care it takes in exploring him, and little jolts of pleasure riot through him.

When it brushes over his thighs, soft so soft and gentle, he jerks again, warmth spreading in riots underneath his skin all over, and he releases a noise that kinda sounds like a strangled sigh and he doesn't really want to believe it came from him, and his heart's beating too fast, and heat swells down there, and he doesn't even—and then the tendril moves away, leaving him gasping and panting and writhing, wanting it to return. What is going on?

It prods at his neck and he stiffens, safety's illusion shattering like the bridge had, and he wants to cry out, but who will hear? Who will care? What's the point in continuing? Even if this isn't the end, they're just going to be caught up in the Purge again and slaughtered because of Pulse hiding out in Bodhum and it's not fair, not fair, and his mom is—and then the tendril drifts to explore his chest, and he lets out a tiny sob, because whatever it's looking for, it won't find in him, because he's nothing, got nothing, not even a future, and he shakes in the tendrils' grip, and they tighten, reassurance or restraint or both.

Hope falls limp, scrunches his eyes shut, and tries to take the offered safety, because if this is it, he's not going to die scrambling.

He'll die calm and strong like his mom.

A sob breaks forth and the tendril wraps around his forearm, and then—hot sharp pain light ow warmth strength power more more more more more—and it strikes beneath his skin, light flaring to darkness, a mark—oh, no no no no—and then the bells are replaced by a roar and the darkness turns to moving sepia, a huge beast with stark rage, and he wants to scream with the sense of dread it fills him with.

And then the darkness and the image and the tendrils evaporate—till the only things left are a glittering lake, those people from the Vestige, the damn mark, and the sudden sense of power.


End file.
